


A Sherlock and John Fanfiction

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Johnlock ficlets [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad on purpose, Deliberate Badfic, Funny, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:04:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock and John always called Sherlock’s coat 'The Belstaff' as if it were a national landmark."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sherlock and John Fanfiction

**Author's Note:**

> It's bad on purpose! Hope you get a giggle.

John was puttering with the kettle while Sherlock tucked his aubergine purple shirt into his bespoke trousers.

“I need a case,” Sherlock moaned. “And I hate Mycroft. He killed my dog.”

The dwarf-sized soldier/doctor put on his Captain Watson voice and snapped, “Drink this!” as he handed Sherlock a mug of tea just how Sherlock liked it—fill the cup 2/3 with sugar, lay a tea bag on top, and top with hot water. Sugar was Sherlock’s heroin replacement, and he never ate food except about once a month! And he didn’t sleep for a week yet somehow never had a mental breakdown, then slept for seventeen hours and John thought this was cute and adorable even though he was a doctor.

Sherlock’s heart melted at Captain Watson’s order, and he did as he was told because if there was one thing he was, it was submissive to John. John Watson, with his grey hair and his tiny, tiny hands and his nubbly jumpers. What a teddy bear he was! But also a total badass whose boots Sherlock would gladly lick. They were both very complicated blokes, really.

Sherlock says, “My body is a transport. Caring is not an advantage. Where is The Belstaff?” Sherlock and John always called Sherlock’s coat “The Belstaff” as if it were a national landmark.

“That’s a bit not good,” John grit out. He took out his phone and text his ex-boyfriend from the army. He could not remember if his affair with the man was canon or merely fanon. He checked his waistband for his unsecured, illegal pistol and it was right where it should be, its barrel warming up in the cleft of his arse cheeks. “Arse” is a British word at once humourous and pornographic, very unique.

Despite the fact Sherlock was an asexual virgin, the sight of John in the kitchen making tea wearing that same old oatmeal jumper he’d once worn for five minutes but which had become his signature item of clothing drove him mad with lust he didn’t comprehend and his chin quivered as tears boiled in his iridescent, grey-green-blue, moonstone eyes.

“John, I have to tell you something very important.”

“What is it, Sherlock?” John was very empathetic to Sherlock even though Sherlock was weird. John was the only person in the world who understood Sherlock; what was it that made him so uniquely suited for this role? No one knows. John has the heart of a lion, and also of a nurse. He is soldierly and doctorly and his sister he disapproves of is his best friend. He text her, too, just to say hello and ask to meet her for tea.

“Something awful and painful and confusing is happening,” Sherlock wept. They went to his bedroom then and lay down together on the bed and just hugged each other, like two men in their thirties often do. They liked to stroke each other’s hair and be sad at each other for hours—sometimes days on end. They would have put mascara on each other and practiced kissing the backs of their hands except that they were so busy sighing and holding each other in bed, fully clothed, best friends.

“What is it, Sherlock? You know I’m here for you and will help you with anything, always, because you cured my limp and you worship my bullet scar and I love it when you say how dull and stupid I am; it’s charming and charismatic. You’ve put a spell on me, somehow.” The old man stroked his wee teeny fingers through the baby man’s inky-black hair (blue black, it seemed, all one tone and SO CURLY MY GOD. Clairol Nice n Easy #124, this one). “If you want to let the world think you’re a mental case and a virgin, that’s OK, I get it, because I see the real you, which is hungry for my cock and also a vampire. It’s all fine because I’m straight but you’re so magical and otherworldly that perceptive nurse-faced types like me fall in love with you instantly.”

“I’m not a vampire; I’m an angel. But not god’s angel,” Sherlock corrected and then said, “I don’t know why I would even say this, but I want to put my mouth together with your mouth—is that right? That doesn’t sound right. You know I’m barely human, right? It’s part of my allure.”

“Righto, chap!” John replied, and began to stroke Sherlock’s half-hard prick without lubrication of any kind.

Sherlock’s voice was a subsonic rumble that shook loose the bowels of everyone on the block as he cried out, “You keep me right!” and cum spurted out of him for like ten minutes and he shivered and cried some more because it was all too much for his delicate, tiny, birdlike body to handle.

John licked Sherlock’s cum off his hand and it was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. Despite his lack of sexual knowledge, Sherlock threw John onto his back, kneeled between his legs and deep-throated his horrifyingly enormous prick like a fucking champ! He held the cum in his mouth then used his cunning lips and tongue to spell out, Marry me, John Watson in cum all over John’s belly.

They got married and adopted children and dogs because they were well-suited for family life.


End file.
